bramstokerfandomcom-20200213-history
The Lair of the White Worm/Chapter 8
MR. SALTON HAD an appointment for six o’clock at Walsall. When he had driven off, Sir Nathaniel took Adam by the arm and said to him: “May I come with you for a while to your study? I want to speak to you privately without your uncle knowing about it, or even what the subject is. You don’t mind, do you? It is not any idle curiosity. No, no. It is on the subject to which we are all committed.” Adam said with some constraint: “Is it necessary to keep my uncle in the dark about it? He might be offended.” “It is not necessary; but it is advisable. It is for his sake that I asked. My friend is an old man, and it might concern him unduly—even alarm him. I promise you there shall be nothing that could cause him anxiety in our silence, or at which he could take umbrage.” “Go on, sir!” said Adam simply. When they were locked into the study he spoke: “You see, your uncle is now an old man. I know it, for we were boys together. He has led an uneventful and somewhat self-contained life, so that any such condition of things as has now arisen is apt to perplex him from its very strangeness. In fact, any new matter is trying to old people. It has its own disturbances and its own anxieties, and neither of these things are good for lives that should be restful. Your uncle is a strong man with a very happy and placid nature. Given health and ordinary conditions of life, there is no reason why he should not live to be a hundred. You and I therefore, who both love him, though in different ways, should make it our business to protect him from all disturbing influences. Such care shall undoubtedly add to the magnitude of his span of life and the happiness of his days. I am sure you will agree with me that any labour to this end would be well spent. All right, my boy! I see your answer in your eyes; so we need say no more of that. And now,” here his voice changed, “tell me all that took place at that interview. There are strange things in front of us—how strange we cannot at present even guess. Doubtless some of the difficult things to understand which lie behind the veil will in time be shown to us to see and to understand. In the meantime, all we can do is to think and work patiently, fearlessly, and unselfishly, to an end that we think is right. Tell me as well as you can—I shall try to help you. You had just got so far as where Lilla opened the door to Mr. Caswall, and the Christy Minstrel, who had followed him, went a distance away and lurked. You also observed that Mimi was disturbed in her mind at the way Mr. Caswall looked at her cousin.” “Certainly—though ‘disturbed in her mind’ is only a poor way of expressing her objection.” “Can you remember well enough to describe Caswall’s eyes, and how Lilla looked, and what Mimi said and did? Also of the Christy Minstrel, who is, I take it, Oolanga, Caswall’s West African servant. When you have said all you know of these things, I want you to tell me what you have heard in any way about the ‘Christy Minstrel’. I take it this will be the most humorous way of bringing him in. Though indeed I doubt his being in any conceivable way a subject of humour. Tragedy would more probably be a follower in his train.” “I’ll do what I can, sir. All the time Mr. Caswall was staring, he kept his eyes fixed and motionless—but not as if he was dead or in a trance. His forehead was wrinkled up as it is when one is trying to see through or into something. At the best of times his face is not of gentle expression; but when it was screwed up like that it was almost diabolical. It frightened poor Lilla so that she trembled, and after a bit got so pale that I thought she had fainted. However, she held up and tried to stare back, but in a feeble kind of way. Then Mimi came close and held her hand. That braced her up, and—still, never ceasing her return stare—she got colour again and seemed more like herself.” “Did he stare too?” “More than ever. The weaker Lilla seemed the stronger he seemed to get, just as if he were feeding on her strength. All at once she turned round, threw up her hands, and fell down in a faint. I could not see what else happened just then, for Mimi had thrown herself on her knees beside her and hid her from me. Then there was something like a black shadow between us, and there was the pleasing form of Oolanga, looking more malignant than ever. He had better look out. I am not usually a patient man, and the sight of that ugly devil is enough to make an Eskimo’s blood boil. When he saw my face he seemed to realise danger—immediate danger—and he slunk out of the room as noiselessly as if he had been blown out. I learned one thing, however. He is an enemy, if ever a man had one.” “That still leaves us three to two!”—this from Sir Nathaniel. “Then Caswall slunk out much as the servant had done. When he had gone, Lilla recovered at once. I hope I won’t see Mr. Christy look at Lilla again!” As he spoke he took a nickle-plated revolver from his pocket and put it back again with an ominous remark: “I don’t know if he wishes to be buried on English soil. He can have his choice if he likes. Ordinarily speaking, he isn’t worth a cartridge; but when there is a lady in the case—” The revolver clicked. “Now,” said Sir Nathaniel, anxious to restore peace, “have you found out anything yet regarding your friend the Christy Minstrel? I am anxious to be posted regarding him. I fear there will be, or may be, grave trouble with him.” “Yes, sir, I’ve heard a good deal about him—of course it is not official; but then hearsay must guide us at first. You know my man Davenport, I think. He really is my alter ego—private secretary, confidential man of business, and general factotum. He is devoted to me, and has my full confidence. I asked him to go on board the West African and have a good look round, and find out what he could about Mr. Caswall. Naturally, he was struck with the Caswall’s servant. He found one of the ship’s stewards who had been on the regular voyages to South Africa. He knew Oolanga and had made a study of him. He is a man who gets on well with Negros, and they opened their hearts to him. It seems that this Oolanga is quite a great person in the black world of the African West Coast. He has the two things which men of his own colour respect: he can make them afraid, and he is lavish with money. I don’t know whose money—but that does not matter. They are always ready to trumpet his greatness. Evil greatness it is—but neither does that matter. Briefly, this is his history. He was originally a witch-finder—about as low an occupation as exists amongst the mangrove swamps. Then he got up in the world and became an Obi-man, which gives an opportunity to wealth via blackmail. Finally, he reached the highest honour in hellish service. He became a user of Voodoo, which seems to be a service of the utmost baseness and cruelty. I was told some of his deeds of cruelty, which are simply sickening. They made me long for an opportunity of helping to drive him back to hell. You might think to look at him that you could measure in some way the extent of his vileness; but it would be a vain hope. Monsters such as he is belong to an earlier and more rudimentary stage of barbarism. Whoever kills him when the time comes will not have to fear punishment, but to expect praise. He is in his way a clever fellow, but is none the less dangerous or the less hateful for that. The men in the ship told me that he was a collector: some of them had seen his collections. Such collections! All that was potent for evil in bird or beast, or even in fish. Beaks that could break and rend and tear. All the birds represented were of a predatory kind. Even the fishes are those which are born to destroy, to wound, to torture. The collection, I assure you, was an object lesson in human malignity. This being has enough evil in his face to frighten even a strong man. It is little wonder that the sight of it unexpectantly put that poor girl into a dead faint! If that other savage intends to keep him round here they may build a new prison at once; for there won’t be a decent man or woman in his neighborhood that won’t be a criminal at the very start, if indeed it be a crime to destroy such a thing.” Adam was up in the early morning and took a smart walk round the Brow. As he was passing Diana’s Grove, he looked in on the short avenue of trees, and noticed the snakes killed on the previous morning by the mongoose. They all lay in a row, straight and rigid, as if they had been placed by hands. Their skins seemed damp and sticky, and they were covered all over with ants and other insects. They looked loathsome, so after a glance, he passed on. A little later, when his steps took him, naturally enough, past the entrance to Mercy Farm, he was passed by Oolanga moving quickly under the trees wherever there was shadow. Laid across one extended arm, and looking like dirty towels across a rail, he had the horrid looking snakes. He did not seem to see Adam, to the pleasant surprise of the latter. No one was to be seen at Mercy except a few workmen in the farmyard. So, after waiting round on a chance of seeing Mimi, he began to go slowly home. Once more he was passed on the way. This time it was by Lady Arabella, walking hurriedly and so furiously angry that she did not recognise him even to the extent of acknowledging his bow. He wondered, but simply went on his way. When he got to Lesser Hill, he went to the coach-house where the box with the mongoose was kept, and took it with him, intending to finish at the Mound of Stone what he had begun the previous morning with regard to the extermination. He found that the snakes were even more easily attacked than on the previous day; no less than six were killed in the first half-hour. As no more appeared, he took it for granted that the morning’s work was over, and went towards home. The mongoose had by this time become accustomed to him, and was willing to let himself be handled freely. Adam lifted him up and put him on his shoulders and walked on. Presently he saw a lady advancing towards him, and as they drew nearer recognised Lady Arabella. Hitherto the mongoose had been quiet, like a playful affectionate kitten; but when the two got close he was horrified to see the mongoose, in a state of the wildest fury, with every hair standing on end, jump from his shoulder and run towards Lady Arabella. It looked so furious and so intent on attack that he called out: “Look out—look out! The animal is furious and means to attack.” She looked more than ever disdainful and was passing on; the mongoose jumped at her in a furious attack. Adam rushed forward with his stick, the only weapon he had. But just as he got within striking distance the lady drew out a revolver and shot the animal, breaking his backbone. Not satisfied with this, she poured shot after shot into him till the magazine was exhausted. There was no coolness or hauteur about her now. She seemed more furious even than the animal, her face transformed with hate, and as determined to kill as he had appeared to be. Adam, not knowing exactly what to do, lifted his hat in apology and hurried on to Lesser Hill.